Hell on Earth
by LadyLeafling
Summary: Weeks after the outbreak of the Green Flu, survivors from all over the country are fighting for their lives. Do they have what it takes to fight their way to rescue? Do they have the willpower to try and outlast the virus? There is only one way to find out: submit your own characters and see if they can survive Hell on Earth! Rating may change over time. Read and Review!
1. Chapter 1

**A\N: I was up all night playing L4D2 and I decided, "Hey, why not make a fan fiction?" So, here we go! I don't know how long I'm going to be able to keep this up on my own, so if you want to, you can submit your own character and they can try to survive along with my own! :)**

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Cold, hard rain pelted the street, and it, along with the diluted oil—that had no doubt been spilled on the pavement during an earlier excursion by equally desperate, equally frightened survivors—made the ground slick and slippery; almost impossible to get a foothold on. It honestly didn't help that Hannah's sneakers had soft soles. No traction to keep the bumpy, uneven blacktop from slipping out from underneath her.

The young woman struggled to keep upright, as she pushed back as hard as she could against the unmoving vehicle; a red, Ford pickup truck in seemingly good condition. It had all its tires, the windows had not a scratch or crack—just a handprint here and there on the glass—from what she could tell on the outside, the interior was intact, the radio hadn't been jacked, and the keys were still in the ignition. Under the hood, nothing had been cut or shorted out. The vehicle was perfect. If not for the fact that it was without fuel, Hannah would be singing songs of praise. Instead, she was struggling to move the darned thing and was exerting too much energy, in the process.

Though, she knew how valuable the pickup would be to her survival—not only was it shelter, but it was also a weapon; one vehicle could mow down so many zombies—she was beginning to question if the reward was truly worth the risk. As the saying goes, all things worth having are never the easiest to keep, or obtain, for that matter... or something likely that. Still, the truck was completely without gas... yeah, if she could get it at least half a block up the road, that would be progress worth bragging about—progress that would certainly boost her morale—she just didn't want to get her hopes up again, only to found out that she was chasing hopes of her family being alive like a thirsty man chased mirages, or a dog chased its tail.

As she pushed herself more vigorously against the grill of the truck, she grimaced. Trying not to give into the painful throb of strain that pulsated through her legs, back and shoulders, she busied her mind with more pleasant thoughts. It wouldn't stay focused on delightful recollections of her life before the infection, and so instead, she thought of how, when she came into running into town with a horde of infected on her tail, she had sought out shelter inside a gas-station. She hid in the backroom, and though hadn't thought to check it for fuel; because she was too busy hiding indoors and raiding the shelves and powered-down freezers for food and water, she was sure there was still something in those pumps. There had to be...

Suddenly, lightning struck and the inky, melancholic sky lit up, as dazzling silver-violet bolts of electricity streaked across the flat bottoms of heavy obsidian-colored clouds in a pattern reminiscent of a spider-web. Hannah felt her chest tightened and it felt like she was vibrating, as the thunder rumbled loudly overhead.

The rain began falling in earnest, harder, faster and with bigger droplets. Hannah found herself soaked to the bone in a matter of moments; she shivered, as the cold moisture found its way under her layers and trickled frigidly into _personal_crevices.

Gritting her teeth, as she spat rain-water out of her mouth, she wiped futilely at wetness on her brow and pushed all the more hard against the car. Praying that it would finally budge, Hannah leaned back and applied all her weight to it. And, as if the gods finally decided to answers her prayers, it moved. Unfortunately, it moved a little bit too much and a lot too fast.

"Whoa!" She exclaimed taken aback, as the truck lurched from behind her rather unexpectedly. Falling onto her butt, Hannah gasped at the pain that ricocheted throughout her lower body. The street was hard and unyielding, wet and cold. Her leather-clad palms scrapped painfully against the ground, and she gritted her teeth, as the gloves pressed deeply into shallow wounds that were torn into her hands.

Balling her hands into tight fists, Hannah quickly rolled onto her front and watched with muted horror as the truck rolled away; with it, went her fire-axe and rucksack. Throwing a hand out in front her, while she used the other to scramble to her feet, the girl screamed: "No! Please, no!" As if the vehicle would yield to her pleas and stop, despite the fact that it was now rolling downhill; that the momentum making its wheels turn wouldn't break, because it was commanded to.

On her feet, Hannah ran to the retreating vehicle with her heart lodged in her throat. She didn't know what she was going to do when she caught up to it, but Hannah knew that she needed to stop it rolling down the incline. As she reached for the retreating hood, Hannah managed to wrap her fingers around the wooden handle of her fire-axe; luckily, the axe had been tucked under the coarse fabric handles of her haversack, so when she pulled the weapon from the hood, the bag came with it. Pulling her belongings carefully to her chest, as she mentally thanked her lucky stars, Hannah wheezed.

Though she had recovered possessions, Hannah still ran for the truck—because; let truth be told, that's what she truly wanted.

As the incline grew sharper and the street wetter and wetter under the boisterous downpour; The Ford barreled down the hill with more speed than Hannah possessed. Even as a former track-team star, she didn't have the stamina the keep up with a vehicle plain-sailing downhill, at breakneck speeds. Hannah gasped, as her lungs began to prickle with pain. Lurching forward and catching herself, before she collapsed completely, with her hands on her knees and her shoulders stooped like the hunchback of Notre Dame, she panted and swore the best she could; whilst completely winded.

As she greedily sucked in much needed oxygen breath, Hannah glanced up and only had a moment to react, as she watched the truck smash into the side of a carwash. The glass and bricks crashed loudly, as they caved in upon impact, the roof of the building sagged, before completely crumpling inward; as a major support beam was cracked right in half, by the truck. The establishment's security alarm began wailing deafeningly loud, a dinner bell to the surrounding zombies.

Hannah felt herself thrumming with terror, as she heard the roar of the horde echoing off the walls of buildings and the sort, like a warning klaxon blaring in her ears. Before she could stop herself, she threw up onto the street.

Coughing and wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her jumper, Hannah knew she had to get to a move on, before she became zombie-chow. Listening to the dead howl and clamor, as they tore through the streets looking for someone to feast on, Hannah steeled her nerves. Brandishing her fire-axe, she pulled up her hood to keep the rain from her eyes, and retreated up the incline. So, after an hour of struggling, wasting energy, and praying; she was back to square one.

"Bullshit," Hannah swore, as she stalked off into the night.

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**Character Profile:**

Name: Hannah (Nicknamed 'Annie')

Age: Nineteen

Gender: Female

Height: 5'7

Build: Lean

Ethnicity: Multiple

Hair-style & Color: Messy, curly bob-cut. Dark brown.

Facial Hair: None

Eye Color: Hazel

Clothes: Black Jeggings; grimy, knee-length, light sea-foam green jumper, a black Hello-Kitty hoodie, Black Converse.

Jewelry or Extra Items: eyebrow piercing.

Secondary Weapon (also counts as Melee Weapon): None

Primary Weapon (can also count as a Melee Weapon): Fire-axe

Strengths: Was a distance runner in high-school.

Fear(s): Better left unsaid.

Personality: Guarded, hopeful, hot-headed, anxious, absentminded.

Previous Occupation: None

Background (Life before everything went to shit): Doesn't like to talk about it.


	2. Chapter 2

**A\N: Hmm, two chapters in two days? Not bad. Don't get used to it, though. Any who, before we get the chapter started I just want to gush about how AMAZING you guys are! I honestly did not expect such an overwhelming response; believe you me when I say that I never received so many reviews in one day—thank you all so much! I also thank everyone who sent in their OCs—I look forward to putting them all to good use. For this chapter, it's Grayson by an anonymous reviewer and Allen by **Renchard19**. Hopefully, I did your characters justice! And hopefully, given time, I can make these chapters longer! **

**Thanks in advance!**

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The wet gravel crunched faintly under Allen's durable boots, as the young man and his companion crept cautiously down the empty road. They had met in one of the many survivor safe-houses scattered across state, and had been traveling with one another since. Grayson, in a way, was grateful for Allen's company; the other man, for all his paranoia, kept him busy during the unnerving interludes that came and went between their violent skirmishes for survival. Allen didn't often crack jokes, but the man didn't stop Grayson from doing so.

During times like these; when there were no zombies running them down, no smokers dragging them off into the trees to be suffocated and slaughtered, no hunters to rip and tear at their flesh until their internal organs were exposed and gored—when it was just the two of them, battered and exhausted, closing the distance between their next destination one mile at a time; they would remain ever-vigilant, but would open a channel of communication and fill the air with humorous banter and recollections of past-experiences.

Right then was no exception. As they walked across a narrow, winding dirt-road that cut through a rather large portion of a suburb—which looked as though it had been an idyllic place to live before it felt the wrath of the infected, with its mid-century architecture and once neatly manicured lawns—Grayson openly reminisced about the time before Z-day. He talked about the school he worked for, the students he taught, the girls he dated. The more he talked about it, the more his once modest life seemed majestic, and the further into this living hell he descended; the more he wished he could turn back the clock.

Nonetheless, since he knew life could never return to the way it was before, Grayson held his head up high, still, and not only survived—but, he _lived,_ too; he laughed, he joked, he enjoyed himself to his best ability, despite how tough the circumstances, or how bleak the future appeared. His mother and father, his friends and workmates, his students—they all died, but he would not let it be in vain. He would live not only for himself, but for them as well, because he knew that they would want him to. As cliché as they may have sounded, when he said it aloud to Allen, Grayson clung to that notion like a child in a house full of strangers clings to their mother's legs.

"Do you think they'll ever find a cure?" Grayson asked, as he carefully stepped over a warped, fallen branch. The pathway was littered with debris, bits and pieces of infected and foliage that was blown asunder by the heavy rain that washed through last night. The storm was so intense, that when Grayson had happened upon an old Ham-radio in the house that he and Allen had chosen to sleep in, whoever was broadcasting was warning survivors to stay indoors.

As they walked under the remaining forestry that loomed over the thoroughfare, the two of them could feel the beginnings of another downpour. Allen wiped a raindrop from his eyelid, before pulled the baseball cap off his head. "At this point, the government's just gonna let all the carriers get eaten, and then let the zombies starve afterwards." He paused to scratch his scalp through somewhat-matted black hair. "So, to answer your question honestly: no… no, they won't." He replaced his cap on his head and adjusted it swiftly.

Grayson frowned, and instinctually tightened his grip on his crowbar. "What makes you think that?"

Allen began to answer, when he heard a twig snap somewhere off in the distance. Holding a hand up to both silence and warn Grayson, the raven-haired man knelt down and equipped his Remington. His crowbar lay on the ground by his feet, as he shouldered the firearm. Squinting one eye, to get a better look down the length of the shotgun, Allen held his breath as he waited for an infected to come barreling through the trees.

Grayson had long since readied his crowbar, standing with his feet gaped at a shoulder's length apart—a stance stable enough for him to stay on his feet, yet loose enough for him to drop to the ground and roll, if need be. The two of them stared at the line of trees for a long, eerie moment, as they waited for something to happen. Dead silence stretched out across the space, as neither of them dared to breathe or move, until they were absolutely sure.

Allen's dark brown eyes paid full attention to detail, as they scanned the area with practiced precision. The leaves in the trees overhead stirred, as the breeze blow by—and suddenly the stillness was shattered. An earth-shaking rumble resounded off the tall trees, as the Tank came tearing through the trees, roaring and pounding the ground with its gigantic fists, as it charged the duo like a raging bull.

Allen cocked his shotgun and quickly began letting off rounds into the Tank. As the vicious brute roared and shook the ground, as it charged towards him, Allen swiftly got back to his feet. As it got closer and closer, Allen's aim got increasing better. Loading more shells into the shotgun, Allen raised it and pulled the trigger as many times as he could. The projectiles fired from the smoking barrel lodged deep inside the Tank's bulky torso, but they did little to slow him down.

The creature roared, as it punched a tree straight in half. Allen flinched and hid his face behind his arm reflexively, as the remnants of the tree flew at him in the form of sharp, jagged splinters. The wooden projectiles sliced through the sleeve of his jacket. Hissing, as forearm pricked and bled freely, Allen wielded his firearm, once more, and prepared to shoot again—only to be caught off guard, when the Tank suddenly appeared in his face. In the split-second before he thought he would surely be killed, the raven-haired man hit the powerfully-built infected in the face with the butt of his shotgun.

The Tank staggered, as its nose was smashed in by the impact of the firearm colliding with its face. Hollering, it swung its massive arms wildly in an attempt to grab Allen. The man dodged the first swipe with a well-timed duck, but couldn't recover fast enough to avoid the second one—which sent him and his shotgun sailing across the pathway. Allen hollered, as he was sent airborne and choked nearly on his tongue as his back and head harshly struck a pine-tree. All air fled from his lungs, and he slumped lifelessly against the tree-trunk.

Agony and moisture spread out across the back of his head, and for a moment, Allen thought his skull had split in half. Groaning, he timidly reached for the area which the pain originated from. Even through the fabric of his cap, his fingers felt blood. As his head throbbed painfully, Allen felt nausea overtake him, gripping his abdomen—which felt tight and throbbed dully—he coughed up whatever was in his stomach. Half-ingested pain-pills and corn from one of the many cans Grayson had in his backpack spilled onto the dirt, and with it came blood. Allen's eyes opened wide with alarm, as he forced himself on his knees and heaved up more and more blood. His eyes watered and stung, as he retched uncontrollably. _Shit, there was so much blood… that could only mean he had substantial amount internal bleeding going on._

Holding a hand to his stomach, as he shifted and prepared to stand, Allen felt something inside him tear. Falling back to his knees, Allen grunted. He needed to move, needed to get up before the Tank killed Grayson—looking up and surveying the area, Allen noted with muted horror that he could not see either of them. He could hear them—gunfire and swearing, roaring and crashing through trees—but, he couldn't find them. In his mind, it was only a matter of time, before the Tank caught up to Grayson, before the other man was savaged. And then, the Tank would come back to him and finish what he started. Gritting his teeth, as he coughed up more blood, Allen pulled the strap attached to his shotgun up and over his head. Grimacing, as he used the Remington to shakily pick himself off the ground, Allen panted.

On his feet, Allen leaned heavily against the tree and began replenishing his shotgun with ammunition as quickly as he could. The shells were covered in the same blood that stained his hands and dribbled from the corners of his mouth, as he loaded them into the firearm. Cocking the shotgun, he pushed himself away from the tree and began stumbling into the woodland. Though, wounded, he was prepared to help Grayson, if need be.

"Gray!" He hollered, through blood-stained teeth, as he staggered through the trees. The battle between Grayson and the Tank echoing throughout the forest tormented Allen, as it grew fainter and fainter, despite his progression through the dense thicket. _Where the hell could they be, if the sound was getting quieter? _Allen thought_, _as he skulked as noiselessly as he could_._ Eventually, the noise ceased—and Allen's blood ran cold in his veins, at the possibility that Grayson had just been killed.

"Gray!" He shouted more earnestly. Allen's voice reverberated through the trees for a moment, before the woodland grew quiet once more. Pausing, the man listened carefully for any signs that Grayson was still alive. When he heard nothing, Allen lowered his shotgun and swore heavily. "Fuck, man... you can't be dead. C'mon, Gray, you better bring your ass out here!"

Silence followed, once again, and it made Allen sick. Pulling the shotgun onto his back with the thick, black strap, the raven-haired man retreated back to the road and relocated his crowbar. As he knelt down to retrieve it, Allen felt a newfound agony blossom in the back of his head—like someone had just struck him directly on portion of his skull that had already taken that pretty nasty hit—and distantly heard the muted thwack of the butt of a gun hitting him. His body seized up, before he fell completely limb onto the ground. Allen's eyes rolled around dazedly, but he refused to go unconscious… he refused…

"Allen! Stay with me—" Came Grayson's voice a moment later, startling Allen back to focus. The other man lifted Allen's head as delicately as he could manage, as he pulled off the raven-haired man's cap and began to evaluate the damage done. "Shit, man, what'd you go and do that for?" He fussed, as he shrugged his rucksack off his shoulders and began rifling through it for a rag. Allen wondered who Grayson was talking to, but found his grip on reality slipping with each passing second.

A gravelly, lightly-accented voice is the last thing Allen heard, before he went under; and, it appeared that whomever the voice belonged to seemed apologetic. "Damn, I thought he was one of those things…" They said, ruefully. "Look, just get him up; we'll take him back to the safe-house."


	3. Chapter 3

**A\N: Eh, so I've been sick... yeah. Anyway, new chapter. More characters are introduced. Sorry if I made them OOC; I tend to write poorly whenever I'm having that time of the month. This hasn't been beta'd, since I wrote it last week and only got around to finishing it today. Thanks in advance. LACKLUSTER AUTHOR'S NOTE IS LACKLUSTER.**

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Through his scope, the sky overhead was as bloodshot and ominous as the carnage and cadavers that stained the streets for miles. Joshua took a deep breath, as he pulled away from the rifle and wiped sweat from his brow. Adjusting his cap, he noted how humid it was between all the rain and wind that blew through the area. His clothes clung to him like a second skin, his leather jacket acting as a furnace; as it absorbed the heat from the broiling sun and held it within the folds. Begrudgingly, he had shed his favored coat and was now using it as a cushion between his elbows and the coarse, rigid roof-top.

Lying prone, under the sweltering sun, for what felt like two hours—but, was really half that time—Joshua had felt his elbows first creak with fatigue, then blossom with nail-biting discomfort and pulse with aching, before they ultimately went completely numb. Joshua felt his head throb dully with an oncoming headache, felt his throat constrict and dry; saw stars and colors in his line of sight, as he wiped sweat and fatigue from them fruitlessly. He was experiencing all the tell-tale signs of an onset of mild dehydration, and yet, he didn't care—couldn't bring himself to give into his body's pleadings to move, to stretch, to find sustenance; or whatever else it was that his body sought after, this time or that time.

His elbows could bleed if they wanted to. His fingers could stay permanently fixed in the position they were in at current, and never flex again. He could dry up completely, become as leathery and arid as his jacket—as long as he was on lookout; he would not move from his place. If Joshua put his responsibly before himself in the Marine Corps, during the zombie apocalypse, he would be no different.

Shaking his lassitude off the best he could, Joshua squinted through the scope and took in the sight sprawled out before him. A wall of infected, each as hideous and mangled as the other, surrounded the ground floor of the building he was on. They ambled about; some stumbling through the streets; others took to banging on the boarded doors and windows. There were so many of them. He estimated around thirty or so. And, they all looked poised to break down the reinforcements and storm their little fortress at the drop of a hat.

Joshua was careful to keep his finger off the trigger. Just one shot and the infected would be given that motivation to rip through weeks of preparation, days of constructing and who knows how long of supplying and kill them all before they had a chance to make a break for the doors.

It was amazing how little it took to drive them into an absolute frenzy. Watching the infected squabble amongst themselves over the scraps of some poor guy's corpse, Joshua heard the sound of gym-shoes crunching on gravel. The footfall was familiar enough, so he did not turn around. Instead, he drew back from scope just enough to see through its reflection. Sure enough, there she was; all bright colored hair and wiry muscles, exuding rebellion with each breath she exhaled. '_Zaira Cutter… the insufferable rich-kid, with a chip on her shoulder.'_ Joshua thought, as he observed her.

She was standing a few feet away from the door; in her hands were two ice-cold beers and a bag of junk food. The offering of refreshments let Joshua know that, although he was not being relieved of his duty, someone was concerned about him and his well-being. Probably not Cutter, though, given that she hadn't wiped that look of distain off her face, since the two of them met. "Brought you a little CARE-package, courtesy of Mrs. Champion..." Zaira said, with a slight twinge of wry humor in her tone. Though, she held her arms out for him to take the food from her, Zaira remained where she was—waiting for him to make the first move.

"If you're trying to poison me, you might want to be less obvious about it, Cutter." Joshua said with a scoff, as he stood up and regarded her with unyielding, iridescent green-eyes. It seemed then, that their height-difference was a great one; Joshua being practically head and shoulders taller than Zaira. The redhead gripped the perspiring bottles tighter, and for a moment, it seemed that the bottlenecks were about to crack in half within her taut grasp. Their eyes never broke contact, as the two alphas locked horns.

"If I was trying to kill you, I would have already done it." She countered. And, just like that; the hoary machete hanging from her hip began to gleam devilishly; like it was, somehow, a manifestation of her murderous intent. Her name, Cutter, suddenly got a lot more literal. Joshua found himself speculating how many times Zaira dreamt about slicing that rusted blade across his neck. How many zombies she had killed, and how she must have enjoyed every moment of it.

Despite himself, the marine let a hand wander to the column of his neck, where he absentmindedly touched the slightly sunburnt, but otherwise smooth, skin there. "Don't worry, pretty-boy; I won't waste my time chasing after you, when there's a street full of bastards to take my anger out on." Zaira said with a wicked smirk.

Not amused, Joshua folded his arms across his chest. "Oh, thank you—you really put my mind to ease. Now that I know you won't try snuffing me out, I can sleep peacefully. A fucking zombie apocalypse; and, I was pissing my pants at the thought of being decapitated by a little girl." He replied coolly; his words dripping with venom.

"Oh, bite me, Mr. Bad-Ass Marine." She spat, throwing the rations at him. The machete swung from side to side wildly, as Zaira spun on her heel and turned to leave. Joshua leered, preparing to say something sharp to her departure, when the redhead whipped around and threw one of the bottles of beer at him. Joshua fumbled, as he lurched forward and caught the bottle clumsily in both hands.

Zaira laughed uproariously, mocking the marine openly, as she declared herself victor of this particular clash. He glared at her; calling her something filthy under his breath, before he wrenched the bottle-cap off.

Zaira uncapped her own bottle, before draining the acrid contents in one long draught. Exhaling loudly after she did so, the redhead walked to the edge of the rooftop and tossed the bottle off the side. The sound of glass exploding into millions of emerald pieces on the ground echoed throughout the otherwise silent area. Zaira leaned over the rail and watched with mild fascination, as the zombies bit and crawled at each other, as they fought their way to the broken bottle. Abruptly, Zaira turned her head and found Joshua returning to his original position. "Why the hell are we still here?" She asked brusquely, as she gripped the stout railing that spanned across the edge of the rooftop tightly in her grip.

Joshua adjusted the zoom on his scope, as he closed his left-eye and peered through it. "Because, it's safe…" He answered matter-of-factly, as if Cutter's question was the dumbest inquiry in the world. "…and, it's not like we have anywhere else to go."

Zaira carded her fingers through her hair, sweeping her uneven fringe from her eyes, as she watched the carnage below until she grew sick of it. Whirling around and putting her back to the shaky, metal-banister, she regarded Joshua with cold eyes. "Bullshit—how is this place in anyway _safe_? Do you somehow not see the large horde of zombies behind me, or are you fucking _high_?"

Joshua shrugged, as he took a swig from his beer. "For your information, Cutter, I can see just fine, and I do see them. Every damned day I'm out here—actually doing what I have to do to keep us safe; while you swan around, acting like you own the place." Rolling his head on his shoulders to loosen the tension building in his neck, he continued: "—and, yes, I'm fully aware that, at any given moment; all hell can break lose. What the hell are we supposed to do, though? They've got us surrounded; there aren't any other exits except the front and back doors—which haven't been accessible since Norman got himself killed on a supply-run—the best thing we can do is stay put."

"Stay put until what, exactly?" Zaira asked frenziedly, pushing herself off the railing and advancing hotly on Joshua. "Until the military comes and bombs us all straight to hell—how have _not _you seen what's been happening to everyone who waits?" She asked incredulously. "They get eaten by their friends and families. Put down by strangers, who they thought were comrades, like they were bleedin' dogs! Murdered in cold-blood by the fucking bastards who said they would _help_—who _promised_ that they would help,and have done nothing but stab everyone in the goddamned back! If you want to stay put, so they can fuck you over like everyone else, be my guest; but, I can't do this shit. I'll take zombies over the military, any day of the week."

Joshua let Zaira continue her tirade; as he surveyed the streets unfazed. Sweeping his view over the street beyond the wall of infected, Joshua noticed a car, whose whole right side had been caved in by a great impact. Maybe it was due to a collision; or, maybe it was due to a Tank—Joshua didn't have any way to discern the cause damage from the distance he was at, even with his rifle's scope, but he had an inkling that it wasn't due to a car-crash.

Hoping that the redhead would gain a fresh perspective of the situation beneath them—stop being so fucking antsy for just this once, and _think._ Joshua motioned her over. His eyes never left the totaled vehicle, as he spoke: "Eh, Cutter, whenever you're done, you might want to check this out." '

The woman paused, watching the marine warily, before she shifted her belt around and got to her knees beside him. The roof scrapped her bare legs up, but she didn't pay it even mind, as she got onto her stomach. Laying completely horizontal on the roof, she took a deep breath, before peering through the scope. Zaira found the horribly disfigured Camry without even looking for it. Even through the red of the scope, she could tell that the interior was stained with gore—could tell that the vehicle had a horrible story to accompany its mutilated appearance.

Zaira scrunched her nose up, before pushing the rifle away. Getting to her knees, she regarded Joshua with an expression that was entirely unreadable. The marine knew immediately from her body-language, however, that the woman wasn't taking in the newfound possibility that they would be in more danger leaving than staying, as he planned.

Joshua stood, bringing his rifle with him as he did. Propping the firearm against his broad shoulder, he frowned when Zaira got her feet and put her hands on her hips, a smirk painted on her face. "I can practically see the light-bulb shining over your head..." He stated plainly. "You might as well tell me your plan, so I can put a stop to it."

The redhead looked cheeky, as she squeezed the base of her machete and looked out across the crowded streets. "There's a cellar, downstairs, you know. And, since this town used to be crawling with colliers, I'm guessing that the cellar leads to the mines. If we can get down there; we can follow the channel to the main mine entrance at the end of town." Zaira informed, her smirk growing wider and wider, as she developed the thought more in her head.

"What about the zombies?" Joshua asked, rightfully skeptical.

"We can take them, for sure—between all of us, we've got enough firepower to wipe the floor with those fuckers." Zaira punched her hand threateningly, as if to further emphasize her point. "I've got my assault rifle, and if that fails, I've got my machete. You have yours'—and, I know it has a full-clip, since you haven't shot it since we got here. Thomas has his M16—we can do this. The others have guns, too—"

Joshua pinched the bridge of his nose, before interrupting her. "What about the children and the wounded? What about the elderly? They don't have weaponry of any sort; some of them can't even walk! Why should we put them in harm's way, because you have a 'feeling' that we might being sitting on top of a mine, which; in case you don't know, hasn't been entered since the late eighties and might as well have caved in?"

"Oh, screw you, Towel," Zaira growled. "You act like you know what's best for the group, but what have you been doing while they starve downstairs?—hide up here, away from everyone, so you don't have to see their faces; their disappointment, because you know that they know that their self-appointed leader is incompetent! The children have _nothing_ to eat—the elderly are getting sick—the sick are dying. What have you done for them, Towel? _Not a fucking thing."_

"How so, am I incompetent? I've been doing a hell of a lot more than you!" Joshua tried to bite back the rage that boiled in his blood. Of all the people who could accuse him of incompetence, it was Cutter! "I let you be leader for one day, and you got a child's father killed, right in front of them—how's that for incompetence."

Joshua's words made Zaira see red. Snapping, she lunged towards him with her arms outstretched—ready to claw and punch any part of him that she could reach. "Take that back, you fucking bastard! It wasn't my fault—" _Of course it wasn't... he wasn't fast, enough. That's it, right? Blame the victim—blame everyone, but yourself. _"You should have done something; you were there, too! His blood his on your hands, too!"

Zaira's nails found the tender flesh that rested behind Joshua's ear and sank in so hard and deep, that the skin punctured and bled. The marine growled, as his wounds smarted with pain. Blood oozed from the cuts freely and stained his shirt—the smell of it in the open air made the zombies go insane with hunger, below them.

Reaching up, he caught the red head's arms by the wrist and twisted sharply, using only a fraction of his strength. The woman howled in pain, before pulling away. He didn't let go, and so she dropped back and swiped Joshua's feet from under him. Jamming a foot into his stomach, she flipped him over her with a swift roll.

Her knees collided with the roof with a muted thud, and the skin there shredded, as it skidded against the coarse ground beneath. Deep, red tracks of blood stained the rooftop where she kneeled. Zaira gasped in pain, but the former-dancer didn't let it affect her any longer than it needed to, as she heard Joshua get back to his feet. Gritting her teeth, redhead sprang upwards and reached for her machete—only to find it gone. Groping at her waist, she looked up and found her weapon on the ground by Joshua's feet. "Bastard!" She exclaimed, realizing how easily he had disarmed her.

Joshua smeared the blood on his neck, as he wiped at the spot with the back of his hand, before getting into a proper fighting-stance. Spitting onto the hot roof, the marine glared at Zaira. "So, this is it, huh? The hot-headed heroine faces off with her arch-enemy? Newsflash, I'm not like the guys in the movies—I won't let you beat me. Are you sure really want to fight me—for the sake of your little tantrum?" He panted, his voice gravelly and dangerous.

Zaira wiped sweat from her brow, before shrugging off her hoodie. "Fuck yes." She gasped, as she rolled the fabric into a ball. "I've never passed up an opportunity to hand someone their ass on a silver platter. Besides, I've been wanting to wipe that smug, shit-eating grin off your face, since the first time I met you."

"Funny, because I don't ever remember smiling, since I've met you."

Tossing her discarded hoodie to the rooftop, Zaira charged Joshua. The shock-absorbers in the soles of her pricey gym-shoes worked over time, as her feet impacted hard with the chippings that lined the roof. She ran with all the grace of a former-dancer and the ferocity of a hungry lioness chasing down a gazelle.

Joshua braced himself for whatever the redhead prepared to throw at him. If she tried to tackle him, he would side-step her, catch her around her lithe midriff and put Zaira down. If she tried to punch him, he would duck down and drive his shoulder into her unprotected stomach. While he was making game-plans, Zaira acted. And just like always, his body had picked up the slack, when his mind had faltered—instinctively, Joshua lifted his arms up to block a powerful kick, as Zaira swung her toned leg at his head.

His forearms stung from the hit, but Joshua ignored the pain, as he unfolded his arms and caught Zaira's retreating leg by the bend of her knee. "Got'cha." He exclaimed, as he swept her other leg out from under her with a careful swipe of his leg, and put the redhead on her back.

Zaira grunted, as she tried to recapture her stolen breath. With the marine on top of her, pinning her leg to her chest and constricting her airway, it was almost impossible. Looking up, she spat harsh words at Joshua, before trying to kick herself free from the marine's hold. Joshua held on tight. Her face began to tingle with numbness. Knowing that she could go unconscious at any even moment, Zaira resorted to trying to claw him off. The redhead screeched angrily, when it didn't work, before throwing her elbow sharply against the side of the man's head.

Joshua groaned, head snapping abruptly to the side. He was left reeling, gasping as his vision spotted. The connection between mind and body severed, momentarily, with the force of the blow. Like hitting the reset button on a computer. Zaira punched him again for good measure, before she rolled them over, so that she was on top.

Straddling his chest, the redhead jammed her forearm tightly against the marine's neck to make sure he couldn't catch his breath. Unlike the marine, she was out for blood—blood and respect. He would respect her. Or, he would die trying. Joshua choked, as he lifted his sweaty hands and wrapped them around Zaira's own neck and squeezed as tight as he could in his weakened state. She tried to struggle out of his hold, but couldn't for the life of her. _Damn it_, she wheezed, before squeezing Joshua's neck harder.

In the midst of their heated bout, neither of them heard Thomas stomping up the stairs—nor did they hear him come out onto the roof. It wasn't until the dark-haired teen was ordering for the fight to break up, until he pulled Zaira free from Joshua's grip, did the two of them acknowledge his presence.

"Get the fuck off of me!" Zaira screamed, as she struggled against Thomas' strong hold. Joshua rolled away, coughing and wheezing, uncontrolled tears streaking down his cheeks as oxygen filled his lungs. Breathing hard, the marine stayed knelt down, as he tried to get his bearings.

Thomas took charge, then. Ordering Joshua to collect his jacket and rifle, he tightened his grasp on Zaira's arms and dragged the woman back towards the door. And so, they had reentered the safe-haven; Thomas, fixing to hand them over for punishment. Joshua kept his head down, as he walked, feeling every bit disgraceful as a marine caught fighting a woman should.

The stairwell was dimly lit, the only light was provided by the rays of sun pouring in from the ajar door and the murky windows. Having traversed the stairs so many times, they didn't stumble. Not even Zaira, as she continued her struggling, with her arms pinned behind her back. "Let me go!" She repeated, her voice harsh from screaming, as it echoed through the scantly illuminated space.

Thomas thought about letting Zaira free, but quickly dispelled the notion, as he thought back to how he found them on the roof top; fighting like idiots. Though it was unfair to reprimand only the redhead, when Joshua was fighting, too; the brunette was wise enough to leave well enough alone. Mrs. Champion would deal with them.

And soon enough, she did.

"You two are incorrigible." Sighed the matronly proprietor of the establishment they dwelled in, when the trio finally got to the bottom of the stairs, on the second floor. Her face was heavily wrinkled, both from age and from stress. Her cheeks were gaunt as the rest of her—she wasn't supposed to be this skinny, her body was much too tall for the weight she was currently at, and it showed on her arms and legs; They were as skinny as rails. The dark rings under her blue eyes were an indicator that she hadn't slept. Her hair was silver, thinning, and bound in a short ponytail. Her clothes just as filthy as everyone else's, though she hadn't looked as though she had seen any action. Marla Champion was her name, and she was well within her sixties—too damned old for the zombie apocalypse, she would always joke. She always could find humor in the darkest of times; her greatest quality. Her sternness being her worst; because it came out of leftfield.

Planting her boney hands on the table, the elderly-woman leaned her scrawny form over the grimy surface. "What happened now? I sent you up stairs to give him some nourishment, and you come back practically hog-tied."

Zaira gnawed on her lip angrily, before she pulled herself free from Thomas' slackened hold. "…'s Towel's fault—it was Towel's fault." The redhead spat, as she straightened out her rumpled up tank-top. Her face was as red as her artificially colored hair, and it remained twisted up with rage. Her eyes blown wide with adrenaline. Adrenaline that made her fidgety in Marla's midst.

The elderly woman shook her head, before gesturing the former-dancer over. Zaira obeyed on her own terms; walking as slowly as she wanted to, with her hands balled into fist and her words heavy with curses. Standing side by side with the older woman, Zaira glared over her shoulder at Joshua. "Bastard." She swore.

The marine did not let himself be baited by Zaira's harsh words, even though he still burned with wrath. "Enough, Zaira!" Marla bellowed, sternly. She wasn't in as good of a mood as Thomas had originally thought. Whatever her punishment for Joshua and Cutter would be, it wouldn't be pleasant.


	4. Chapter 4

**A\N: I tried so hard to make this chapter not suck. Unfortunately, I couldn't get over my writers block, so the jury's out. ****Ugh, don't shoot me. ****Melissa is** _Southern Facade's _**character.**** Joey is **_Valorknight's. _

**Thanks in advance. **

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The wind was humid and blistering, as it blew passed and stirred the tall grass around them. They travelled throughout the untrimmed grass was practiced ease, as they crossed the wide, emerald-colored field that stretched out as far as the eye could. Joey batted greedy insects from his face with a few wild swats of his hands, as he pushed through the soaring foliage without looking back. His t-shirt was stained heavily with grass and his worn-jeans bore tatters anew from an earlier, almost-lethal interaction with a startled Witch.

His shoes crunched noisily in the desiccated earth beneath him. The sound, along with the cicadas chirping their somber late summertime melody, and the meadow being stirred about by the vociferous wind, made Melissa pause in the middle of the field to observe it all. The trill of nature were almost unfamiliar, to her ears, without the howl of the infected and explosive gunfire... Devoid of the clamor that accompanied the struggle for life, Melissa almost felt as if the meadow was illusory—that the very moment she was experiencing was unreal; that, truly, she was long-dead, a causality of the Green Flu, laying somewhere with the crows picking her eyes  
out, whilst her spirit dwelled in this fantasy world.

After all, there was no way this expansive patch of farmland actually existed—so, untouched by the infected. Clean and spacious still, it was a wonder how it was not annexed and made property of Looters.

Thinking back on how she had been cast violently from her own home by a group of those damned Looters, Melissa concluded that they were no better than the infected. That, though they breathed and felt, just the same as she did, they had made scarce the notion of humanity—like the zombies, they were ruthless and violent. Not only did they fight for their survival; but the lengths that they would go were much too far.

Some of the acts they committed—others would cringe at the notion of, but they would do excessively and without remorse. They murdered and stole, kidnapped and  
raped. Melissa, not too long ago heard someone say that the zombies were worse than any Looter could ever be. They probably never met one for themselves. The Looters, if they should still be considered human, were not even shadows of their former-selves. Just mere shells; vessels for rage and evil. Malevolence personified.

The siren song of untarnished nature and solace was haunting, as well as thrilling. Gripping Melissa by the heartstrings and pulling harshly. Her chest tightened, as the smell of an oncoming onslaught of another rainstorm brought memories of a life before to the forefront of her mind. And, as painful as it was to remember, she didn't want to forget. She wanted to recall her children and their smiling faces; her dog chasing his tail on the porch, or napping by the fireplace; her husband forgetting their anniversary and spending all week making other up to her. Even though they would never come back, even though she would never could or want to replace them, she wished for them to remain alive in her heart and memories. So, that if she died in the next day, hour, or decade; she could still find them in their final resting place.

Joey passed her by, unaware of her pondering and without a word, as he swiped a path through the overgrowth with a wide sweep of his arms. He hated that it was always like this between them. If they weren't fighting for their lives—running wild, with their guns blazing—there would be nothing shared between them but long stretches of uneasy silence and quick glances.

Right then, though, the two of them were sure they had heard some activity nearby the farmhouse they were planning to camp in. It could have been the wind, but they felt the need to check out the noise, before they made up their mind about their lodgings.

The last time they tried sleeping in a random home; in the middle of the night, while they slept, Melissa was ensnared by the tongue of a Smoker and almost dragged from the house completely. She had been sleeping like the dead, due to the prescription-grade sleeping pills that she had taken, at the time of the attack, and when the tongue wrapped around her lower legs and constricted, before recoiling and yanking her off the bed, she failed to awaken and alert Joey. She only awoke, when she was being dragged down the stairs. Hitting her head against the wooden landing, she came to screaming.

Her nails scrapped harshly against the floor, and were ripped up to bed, as she tried to grab onto something—anything to keep her from being dragged off. Her voice was hoarse by the time Joey discovered something was amiss. He had only a fraction of a second to safe her, before she was taken out into the forest and enveloped forever by the suffocating darkness. He sure as hell didn't miss it. With a practiced swing of his machete, he was able to severe the tongue in one clean slice.

Melissa, though free, was crying and praying—looking as broken and human as he'd ever seen the journalist look. That was the last time they took an unnecessary risk, and the first time he had seen Melissa do more than scowl.

They were deathly quiet, as they kept an ear out for any odd sounds. Joey glanced over his shoulder thrice, to make sure the woman was following still. She quickly caught up, when she noticed that he had gotten too far ahead. Rolling her eyes, when he looked at her with genuine concern, Melissa tightened her grip on her baseball bat. "Take a picture, it'll last longer." She sneered, pulling down on the brim of her cap like the cowboys in the movies tipped their hats.

Joey looked rightfully affronted at Melissa's standoffish attitude. "No need to get all pissy, Lis. I'm only lookin' out for you." Directing his eyes dead-ahead of him, he picked up his walking pace. The man's gait was almost too long, too hurried for Melissa to match. She cursed him, as she jogged to keep up. It was Joey's turn to snicker. "Those stubby legs of yours' are proving to be a drawback, after all."

Melissa, now walking close behind Joey, hit him in the back with the tip of her bat. Joey grimaced at the rough tap, before whipping around and pointing his machete at her. "Nah-uh, naughty-girl, save the violence for the zombies."

Melissa moved to hit him one more time, but paused when she heard that sound that had put them on alert, in the first place. Perking up, she looked to Joey questioningly. "Let's split up—attack whatever that is from two angles." She suggested.

"Split up? What if that's a Tank, Lis?" Joey questioned, putting his machete away in favor of his firearm.

Melissa rolled her eyes. "We would be dead, by now, if that was a Tank."

Joey shrugged in begrudging agreement, before making sure his weapon was properly loaded and functioning. "Fine. We'll split up. Don't get yourself killed, Lis." She laughed arrogantly at that, "Right back at you." And then they were off. The unkempt meadow was a flash of green, as the two of them tore through the wide expanse of greenery with a sense of urgency in every step.

Melissa stumbled upon the source of the noise first.

There was an infected rapping at one of the windows, presumably trying to open it. Brandishing her bat, a growl escaped her throat, as she swung it like she was hitting a homerun. The baseball bat hit the infected with enough force to knock it into the window. It let out a pained groan, as its forehead hit the glass and left a deep, spiderweb crack in it. Watching it crumble to the ground, Melissa put her foot on its back to keep it from standing, and raised her bat high above her high, ready to bash its skull in.

"Urgh… wait, wait!" The infected pleaded, struggling under her. Melissa quickly realized that, what she had just struck wasn't a zombie—but a man. This must have been a common mistake, as when Joey had arrived, he too was under the impression that the being on the ground was an infected.

"No, no…! Don't shoot! It's a human… a really dumb one, but a human, nonetheless."


	5. Chapter 5

**A\N: I haven't updated this since October? Geez, I need to get back on the ball. Anyways, thanks to all of those who're still reading and reviewing this story. If not for you guys, I would've given up! Special thanks to Ghost2291 and (one of my closest friends online) Yvonne for letting me use their characters! Hopefully, I'm still able to capture the same feelings that I did in the previous chapters. If not... D: I don't even want to think about it. **

**Thanks in advance!**

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The alleyway was filthy. The narrow walkway was slicked with rain and refuse, gore and bullet-casings; bodies—friend or foe; the undead or the now dead—severely mutilated and otherwise were strewn everywhere. The walls were packed in tight and housed excessive amounts of mold and ivy in the weakening caulk that kept the bricks together.

Said bricks bore deep horizontal scuffs from forceful impacts of wayward melee-weapons, and even heavier damage from gunshots and black scorch marks from a recent pipe-bomb detonation. The stench was almost intolerable; decaying bodies, sweat and gunpowder mixed for a pungent nauseating aroma of death.

The side-street was so dark, it having been so late in the night, the only light provided was from the dim beam coming from Brea's torch and the amber-glow of sporadic gunfire. The only sound was the rhythmic crunch of shoes on slick pavement or unavoidable body-parts, as the trio trekked through the constricted space.

Rubyn led the way, well-equipped with his AS VAL / VSS trained at the darkness that stretched out far beyond. Right behind him was Brea, the faint illumination from her flashlight a necessity, as she pointed it over Rubyn's shoulder and lit up the path before them—her breath against his neck, however, was not. With every exhale, every word, every yawn or gasp—Rubyn was subjected to a hot puff of air against his skin. At first, it was uncomfortable, now it was annoying.

Rubbing his neck, as the skin there began to prickle with Goosebumps; the dark-haired man looked over his shoulder at Brea. "I know this is the zombie apocalypse and all, and the infected tend to smell pretty bad, themselves—but, can you please stop sharing with me what you had for lunch?"

The blonde startled at Rubyn's words, unsure of what he meant, until she noticed him waving his hand in front of his face like he caught a whiff of something foul-smelling. Brea quickly went onto covering her mouth with her hand, as her cheeks colored pink. "Are you seriously telling me that my breath stinks, at a time like this?" She croaked, embarrassedly, her voice muffled against her palm.

"Uh, yeah," Rubyn said matter-of-factly, hearing her despite the low volume of her voice. "What better time to tell you to touch up on your hygiene, then now? I mean, with those things not chasing us for once, now seems perfect time. His tone was more playful than not, but the humor in his statement was lost on the dour blonde.  
Brea clamped her hand more tightly around her mouth, before she looked back at Tracy—who had been quietly bringing up the rear, all evening. Clearly distracted by handheld device she had retrieved from a vehicle on the long stretch of street that had traversed some time ago, Tracy almost didn't hear Brea, when the older woman spoke to her: "Do you think my breath smells bad?" Brea asked, daring to uncover her mouth, as she turned back to make eye-contact with the girl.

Tracy's turquoise eyes looked green in the florescent-light emitted from the PSP, as she peered up from the exciting game of Tetris she was playing. Her features were unyielding and taciturn, as she wore an expression more befitting of an annoyed professor that'd been interrupting during a lesson would have, than it was for the face of a ten year old girl. Humming questioningly, Tracy regarded her older sister with escalating exasperation. "What?"

Brea rolled her eyes, before returning to her original task of shining the torchlight in the direction they were heading in. "I know you heard me the first time." The older blonde said, clicking her teeth.

"No, I didn't. Please repeat the question." Tracy retorted, as she turned off her PSP, and tucked it in the pocket of her coat. Smaller than an average child her age, Tracy's jacket was baggy on her petite shoulders and was long enough to cover her knees. She didn't mind it, as her small size made it easier to hide from the infected—having learned from first-hand experience, the day of initial the outbreak, when she hid in the cupboard under the sink, whilst her mother and father rampaged through the house, affected by whatever the hell it was that was turning the living into the dead and making the dead into the undead.

The girls exchanged scathing ripostes, from then on—having been on each other's bad side since they were forced to leave their home, when the suits from CEDA rounded up everyone in the neighborhood and shot them one by one. If not for the help of their neighbors, the girls wouldn't have been able to escape. If not for the suggestion to leave the town, and their ultimate defection from the group, Brea and Tracy would not have had to see the same people who helped them escape be killed because of them. Whose call it was to leave originally, neither of them could remember. They just knew to blame the other for the shit that happened.

Rubyn listened to their heated, but half-hearted attempts at hurting one another's feelings with mild amusement, as he continued to venture forth and kept his iron-sight trained ahead. He was aware of their tale of woe, aware of their strange trust-hate relationship, aware of the horrible shit they had to do, and had to go through, to get to where they are now.

He didn't look down upon them for any of it, nor did he see them as his betters because of their experiences; all survivors had these quirks. These fucked up qualities that would make it hard for them to live in regular society—if everything could go back to the way it was—but helped them to endure this nightmare realized where the dead walked and feasted on the living, multiplying day by day, as more and more were bitten and infected.

Rubyn, himself, had a story to tell—a novel's worth of tragedies and woe brought upon by months of living and suffering through the green-flu. He, however, didn't choose to dwell upon the twisted recollections. Despite the death, the panic, the children he witnessed taken from their parents; some ripped right from their mother's arms—Rubyn was happy to be alive, and that's all that really mattered to him, at present; not ending up as zombie food and continuing to survive. If the girls wanted to hold onto every experience, good or bad, past or present, let it wear them down and rot them on the inside, he wouldn't stop them. He couldn't stop them.

As they ventured deeper into the alleyway, it began to widen. Inch by inch, the walls began to spread out until there was enough space for Brea and Rubyn to walk side-by-side. The additional space came as a blessing, as Brea no longer had to walk so closely behind the dark-haired man. No offense to him, but he didn't exactly smell like roses and Dior. Neither did she, but Brea couldn't smell her own stink under all the layers of clothing she wore.

Training her flashlight a little higher, the blonde began examining the brick walls for a ladder of some sort. They were walking between two adjacent apartment buildings, and given the old-timey construction of the stout buildings, one of the housing complexes should have had a fire-escape.

"You find one yet?" Tracy asked; jogging to keep up with the two older survivors, as her short legs failed to provide a long or consistent enough gait. She looked weary, now, her age showing through the icy facade, as exhaustion made itself known. Brea turned to look at her and frowned when she noticed the dark eye-bags under Tracy's lower lash-line. Though they snipped at each other more than an old couple on a sitcom, Brea was still Tracy's older sister and protector, her legal guardian since all their kin were dead and gone. Tracy's wellbeing was her first priority, even if Brea pretended not to care—even if she sent Tracy into a dangerous area, crawling with infected in the like for supplies.

The older blonde paused long enough for Tracy to catch up, before she caught the little girl by her midsection and hauled her off her feet. "AHH!" Tracy shrieked, taken aback by the abruptness of Brea hoisting her onto her hip and then Brea's maneuvering of her until she was holding onto her older sister's back. Rubyn turned around, startled by the blonde's scream. When he spotted the two, unharmed and well, he lowered his gun and rolled his eyes.

"What? Did that almost give you a heart attack, old-man?" Tracy sneered; cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment, as she held fast onto Brea's neck to keep from toppling off her back. Brea laughed at her sister's comment, as she jogged to keep up with Rubyn. "The zombie apocalypse and you get done in by a little girl's scream. Incredible." She chuckled breathlessly, Tracy's weight taking a toll on her already overtaxed body, even though the younger practically weighed nothing.

Rubyn snorted. "No, it didn't—Trace didn't scare me, at all." He assured, resolutely. "And, in case you can't tell, I'm still breathing."

"For now…" Tracy promised, darkly and jokingly.

Eventually, their search for a ladder proved a success, as they located a rickety one hanging off the fire-escape not a short time later. Rubyn was careful in touching the loft-ladder, as the paint had all but peeled off and the exposed metal had begun to rust from environmental exposure. Gripping the weather-beaten ladder with precaution, the dark-haired man tried to jimmy it free from the fastenings that kept it from descending completely.

It sounded like jiggling a thick, rusty chain; cacophonous, loud and oddly rhythmic. Rubyn had half a mind to stop before any infected came running at hearing the noise. Letting go, the young man hefted his Special Automatic Rifle onto his shoulder. "Well, that's not coming down." He announced to the O'Haras.

Brea huffed, disappointedly, before letting Tracy off her back. "Lemme have a look." She said, advancing on the ladder. Shining her torch at it, she spotted the secured latches that held the ladder. Seeing no way to undo the latches from where she stood, the blonde scratched her head, as she wracked her brain for a solution.

"Gimme a boost." Tracy's voice cut through her thoughts. Brea and Rubyn's heads whipped around, as they went to stare incredulously at the pre-teen. Tracy was unimpressed. "Give me a boost." She repeated. "I don't weigh as much as you guys, nor am I too big to fit under the railing going across the ladder. I could get up there and let it down." She explained.

Brea turned her head to worry her bottom lip between her teeth in concern, without Tracy seeing. Rubyn nodded quickly, as he moved to assist the blonde in getting up to the ladder. With his gun slung over his shoulder, Rubyn folded his hands over one another and hoisted Tracy up. Not letting go until she was gripping the rusty rungs, he took a step back and offered the girl a few encouraging words. "Break a leg." He joked. Brea flipped him off, not liking his decidedly macabre sense of humor.

Tracy shrugged it off, as she climbed the ladder like a trained professional. The metal apparatus wasn't entirely secure, jiggling and wobbling under Tracy as she climbed swiftly. The girl tried to ignore the creaks and moans of deteriorating metal, as she reached the fastenings and leaned back a little, so that she could slip her legs between the rungs. With the backs of her knees pressed against the rusted ladder, she sat atop the rung, and went to work undoing the latches.

It was a hard fought battle, wrenching the latch side-to-side to crack the hard-paint and rust that kept the joints of the latch stuck in place. Tracy's fingers were rubbed raw from friction, by time she pulled the fastenings free, her fingernails were cracked, split up to the bed and bleeding, the skin spread out across her knuckles bruised and mottled with deep cuts. She hissed at the pain, before she pulled free the last fastening and gasped as the ladder lurched underneath her. It felt as though her internal organs were rushing up her torso and further, until everything was pressed against the base of her esophagus, as gravity tugged her and the ladder back to terra firma.

Gripping onto the rungs until the metal bit into muscle, Tracy screeched, genuinely fearing for her life. The ladder's loud descent combined with her cries for help, were loud enough to alert the nearby infected. So, as Rubyn and Brea watched helplessly, as Tracy held tightly onto the ladder and plummeted to the ground, their attention was stolen away by the raucous roar of the incoming Horde. "Shit!" Brea exclaimed, shocked, as the bellows of hungry infected drowned out the sound of Tracy.

The ground rushed up to meet Tracy at break-neck speeds, and the girl let go of the ladder, as the force of impacting with the concrete was too great—sending violent vibrations up the ladder and her body, shocking her to her very bones with how strong it was. Her vision went black, as her back hit the ground and knocked the wind out of her lungs.

Limp and helpless, unconscious as her battered brain began to swell due to the beginnings of a bad concussion, Tracy couldn't see Rubyn and Brea; as the latter dropped her torch and readied her modified Sniper Rifle, standing back-to-back with the taller survivor, as the prepared to defend their position.

Just as the duo made their stand to fend off the Horde, they heard jangling and pained groans, growls and heavy footfall—all from the overhead fire-escapes, no doubt signaling to them that the infected were above them, as well as behind them. Swearing, Rubyn lowered his firearm. "We have to go!" He shouted, hoping to have his voice heard over the maelstrom of noise that threatened to howl him down.

Brea looked at him as if she was on the verge of murdering him. "I'm not leaving Tracy!" She howled. In the dim lighting, Rubyn could see that her eyes were bloodshot and blown wide with the early development of tears. He instantly felt sympathetic, but with the distance between the two of them and Tracy's unmoving body, he wasn't sure if they could rescue her, or not.

As the infected began to fill the alleyway like water pouring through an opened floodgate, he really began to doubt if retrieval was possible. When Brea fired the first shot, and as the sound of a high-powered bullet sliced through the air and took off the head of a Charger that was barreling towards them—driving the rest of the infected into a frenzy, as the smell of death and the loud sound of gunfire echoed throughout the alley—Rubyn completely doubted that they would be able to reach and rescue the unconscious blonde.

Brandishing his own rifle, Rubyn let off a few experimental shots, as he looked around the increasingly tight space for an exit. They couldn't climb the newly accessible ladder, it was too far; the infected crowded around it and Tracy's body like curious school-children at a zoo enclosure. The way they came was blocked off by zombies, too. Shit, they let themselves be trapped. Rubyn was just about to give up hope, when he spotted a window that hadn't yet been boarded up yet. Knowing that it was now or never, he lurched forward and grabbed Brea by the collar of her sweatshirt. Yanking her backwards, he tore across the short distance between them and the window, and ignored Brea's screeches, as he forced them both through the window.

The glass shattered and tore deep gashes into their skin, but as they ran, putting more and more space between them and the infected, the pain let them know that they were alive. Gunfire and swears echoed throughout the apartment, as they tried to outrun the infected, Brea blinking wildly through her tears, knowing that Tracy couldn't be alive—not with so many of those damned zombies skulking around her. When they made it to an abandoned hallway, and stowed away in one of the apartment units, Brea fell against the door.

Dropping her weapon onto the floor, she cried. Rubyn didn't scout out the apartment like he usually would, instead, he rested his weapons by the door and knelt down to pull Brea into his arms; letting her sob and shout—expend her sorrow and emotional agony into his offered shoulder, until she was dry and breathless. Her face was red and swollen, as she pulled away, sobbing brokenly, tears all used up; as she gripped onto Rubyn's shirt so tightly that her knuckles went white. He was all… all she had left now—she failed… she failed Tracy. Brea almost gagged, as she began to feel ill under the weight of it all.

Her forehead fell back against Rubyn's chest, and the man trended his fingers through her messy, oily blonde-hair, holding her there, as her body quivered intensely. Feeling her against him, Rubyn noted how small she was. Despite her height, her body was less than lithe—emaciated due to a severe nourishment deficiency. She felt frail in his arms. His tight hold on her loosened a fraction, with the thought of breaking her in mind.

When Brea pulled away again, she only moved back far enough to meet his eyes. She couldn't read his emotions like he did hers, but that didn't stop her from leaning forward and capturing his mouth in a hesitant, saline-laden kiss.

Even though she just lost her sister, Brea couldn't stop herself from given into the sudden desire to … to do _this_. Her fingernails dug into the base of Rubyn's neck, as she kissed him and he kissed her back with intensifying ferocity.

Soiled clothing was soon discarded in the midst of their heated exchange. Wounds, old or new, were agitated, as they were scratched open and bleeding anew by wandering nails—or, rubbed harshly against the carpeted floor. Grunts and cries not belonging to the monsters that now roamed the streets filled the air, for once, like a somber melody of human suffering and the bittersweet reality of living in a world that was crumbling around them.


	6. Chapter 6

**A\N: ****I was going to post this yesterday, but I got distracted reading the Perks of Being a Wallflower. Such an amazing book; finished it in like four hours and am considering reading it again! Anyways … I just wanted to tell you guys that you can expect more frequent updates, since it's safe to say that I no longer have writer's block! :D **

**Thanks in advance!**

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Fatigue made Hannah ache in her very bones, but the young woman walked regardless of the throbbing in her body and the burning in her joints. It had been days, two or three, no more than four, since she had lost her chance at gaining a suitable means of transportation. And it should go without saying that she still wasn't too happy about that. With her fire-axe hanging loosely in her slack grip, the brunette observed her surroundings. She was on an abandoned roadway that lead into some town in the boondocks she had only heard stories about, growing up on the fringes of the larger, metropolitan area that surrounded it.

The street, at current, was empty. Save for a large pile-up of twisted metal that was once cars and motorcycles, and now scraps, after fire had long since burned away paint and upholstery and the impact of the crash had compacted vehicles as large as vans into half that size and the desiccated remains of the victims of the accident that littered the road nearby the crash-site, there was nothing else but trash and debris.

As Hannah slowed her steps, a backpack found its way under her feet. The contents of the bag crunched under her weight, like chips being smashed by the larger items in a supermarket's pushcart. Staring down at the backpack, Hannah observed the size and cartoon character plastered on the front and back of it; discerning that it had probably belonged to a child. With the inkling that her observation had yielded, the young woman sucked her teeth, as she knelt down and pulled the bag from under the sole of her shoe. Grabbing it by the torn, plastic handle, she lifted the weather-beaten bag to Holding it to eye-level, and immediately recoiled at the smell it gave off.

Putrid fucking death, Hannah decided, coughing and retching, as she held it away from her face. Flies swarmed around and around the conspicuous russet stain on the corner of the bag that dripped a mysterious, almost viscous fluid onto the road. Clearing her throat, to keep the nausea building in her stomach from escalating, Hannah gently put the backpack on the ground and laid her axe beside it. With both of her hands free, she used one to prop the rucksack up and the other to unzip it. The zipper was rusted and gnarled, so Hannah had to expend more effort than she had originally anticipated unfastening it. When it finally gave, and the backpack peeled open to reveal its contents, Hannah let go of it and fell back onto the street with a shocked gasp.

Hannah thought she couldn't be surprised by anything she discovered, after her first run it with a Witch, but having viewed the substance of the bag, she absolutely lost her shit. Tears brimmed in her eyes and her lips quivered with revulsion. Her face found itself buried in the bends of her elbows, as she kneeled forward and screamed into the sleeves of her hoodie in a mixture of horror and grief. The content(s) of the bag that elicited such a strong reaction from her was a baby—the rotting corpse of an infant. Skin cold and peeling, little hands gnarled and monstrous, hair wispy strands that were matted and wet from the foul-smelling fluid that sloshed around the bag, someone's dearly-departed child sat stuffed in the backpack.

Hannah's body quaked, as she couldn't stop the onslaught of graphic images from invading her head. How the child died, if the child died in pain, the parents packing their tiny body into the bag. She stayed like that, panting and shouting obscenities into the folds of her clothing, until she finally calmed down enough to stop trembling. Afterwards, Hannah breathed deeply through her nose and picked herself up off the street. Grabbing the bag in one hand and her axe in the other, she wiped warm tears from her cheeks with her sleeve and slung the backpack onto her shoulder. The child… he or she deserved a proper burial.

Veering off the highway and towards the forest that bordered it, Hannah traversed the greenery with haste and caution in her steps. Though she resolved to the infant lay to rest respectively, Hannah was no fool—if there were infected nearby, and if they caught the whiff of the liquid dripping from the bag, she would surely have to abandon her noble cause, lest she be killed trying.

Brushing passed overgrown grass and stepping over fallen tree branches, Hannah ventured further and further into the grove until she happened upon a clearing abundant with blooming wild flowers. Violets the deepest hues of blues and purples, roses white as snow and marigolds the pigment of the roaring blaze were scattered around the meadow, bringing color to the otherwise green and earth-toned landscape. Simple, natural beauty she hadn't seen for a long time.

Feeling oddly poignant, Hannah came to the middle of the paddock and knelt down. Pulling the bag off her shoulders, she set it down and marked a spot in the dirt with the tip of her axe's dulled blade. Overlaying one vertical stripe over the other, she made an X in the dirt. Standing, Hannah lifted the axe high above her head, before striking the ground as hard as she could. The shock from the impact sent tremors of throbbing pain up her arms, through her shoulders and down her spine. Soil flew into the air, and Hannah had to close her eyes to keep it from blinding her. Grunting; Hannah reared back and hit the ground again, and again—harder and harder, until she was covered in sweat and wheezing.

Stabbing the axe-head into the ground after she had caught her breath, Hannah dropped back to her knees and began to dig out the hole the rest of the way with her bare hands. Peebles scraped at her cuticles as dirt went up her nails and made her fingers feel gross and uncomfortable. Just when she thought she was about to stop, the breeze blew by and carried the scent of the corpse to the forefront of her mind. She gagged, but dug all the more intensely, until there was a hole in the ground wide enough for her waist to fit in and tall enough to cover her whole leg.

Wiping sweat from her brow, Hannah leaned over and dragged the backpack over to the freshly dug grave, where she debated whether she should take the remains out or not. Hannah made up her mind, when she thought of the many bodies she had passed and left undisturbed. The bodies of adults and children alike, some family and others not—they had probably been desecrated by other survivors, and if not, then eaten by animals. And for the ones she _did _find the time tobury, she was sure their loved ones would not wish for them to be laid to rest without their head, or priceless wedding ring. So, whomever the child's parents were—and if they hadn't put their infant in this damned backpack out of an act of cruelty—probably would have preferred that the baby be put into the ground without it.

And so, Hannah rolled up her sleeves and proceeded to dig the tiny cadaver from the bag with extra care. Even as the viscid liquid stained her hands with its dark coloring and horrid smell, even as tears filled her eyes anew at the full view of the putrefying body, even as she struggled to pull the backpack free from the baby's lifeless legs, Hannah was determined to do this right. Cradling the infant in her arms, she closed her eyes and offered a prayer. She wasn't by any means religious—or, at least, she wasn't anymore—but, Hannah felt better sending the baby off with a few parting words.

"Right now, holding you in my arms, I feel nothing but sadness… so much that I feel like I'm drowning in it. I-I don't even know you—don't even know your name… but… I… I feel like you deserved more than this. I _know _you deserved more than this. You are—_were_…someone's child; their bundle of joy. I'm sure you brought a smile to your mother's face when she was sad and tears from your father's eyes when he picked you up for the first time. And I'm sure you would've continued to do so, if you'd had the chance to. Baby boy or girl—the angel in my arms, I pray that your passing was peaceful and that your soul rests eternally… far, far away from _this, _in a bed of clouds and boundless beauty; perhaps with your parents."

Blinking tears from her line-of-sight, she bit her lip to keep from weeping aloud, before leaning over and placing the infant into the grave. Hannah held her chest, giving an unsuppressed sob, as she stood. She thought of what this would be like if it were a real funeral; there would be a gathering of crying people, hugging and consoling one another, all dressed in decorous black-clothing and heartache. The parents would be shattered, the mother almost too grief-stricken to stand, as she leant against her husband and cried into his suit-jacket. He would put on a brave face, but tears would roll down his cheeks all the same; society's perception of what was appropriate masculine-behavior cast aside, as he became more than a man and wept. All and everyone would cry. Feeling unequivocally overwhelmed, because, really, no one wants to bury their child; especially, one that was so young.

Hannah felt woozy, then; from crying, from thinking, from dehydration and starvation. Swaying on her feet, as her illusion was shattered, and Hannah felt herself being brought back to reality when the ground raced to meet her back and the wind was knocked out of her from impacting so hard with the dirt. She didn't remember the ground being this hard, Hannah wheezed as she tried to reclaim her breath.

Lying on the ground, staring up at the shafts of sunlight that peaked through the gaps in the trees, Hannah let go of whatever remaining emotions she had left.

She assumed it was a little before five in the evening, when she finally picked herself up off the ground and proceeded to finish the burial. There was no time to weave a funeral wreath—Hannah remembered that she still had to get into town before the sunset—but, she wouldn't lay the infant to rest without at least a few flowers, and so she picked the blossoming blooms around the clearing and arranged a thick bouquet with them.

As she tied them all together with the stem of one of the white-roses, and gasped as she pricked her fingers on the thorns. Blood swelled at the puncture sites and Hannah recoiled at the sight of it; knowing how, once the smell of blood got into the air, zombies were sure to follow. Knowing she would have to hurry, Hannah quickly finished tying the bouquet together and put it onto the tiny chest of the cadaver less care than she would've wanted to use.

As she stepped away completely, Hannah shook her hand as the cuts on her fingers stung in earnest. Droplets of blood sprayed in every which direction, but as she hissed and reacted to the pain, she didn't notice. It wasn't until she heard the gurgling sound of a…_ baby crying?_ did she look up from her fingers.

In the grave, the corpse squirmed; eyes bloodshot and glazed over with a film of milky-whiteness. Its mouth opened with another cry that made Hannah's blood run cold. Its body too small and too stiff to do much then wriggle—Hannah was taken aback, as she watched it move. "How… How is that even possible?" She asked herself, as she stepped back even further. The baby… it was a zombie? But, how?!

On its cheek, was a drop of blood—her blood—and it made the infected ravenous with hunger. It howled like a klaxon and squirmed in what seemed to be discomfort. After she got over the initial shock, Hannah knew that she would have to silence the zombie before it was too late. Breathing hard, she walked carefully around the grave and retrieved her axe. Her blood staining the handle, as her fingers wound around it. Hannah stood at the edge of the hole, and wondered whether she should just cover the baby with dirt or snuff it out.

Hannah trembled, feeling a sense of remorse coming over her. Breathing deeply, she opted for the former option, with the head of the axe, she knocked the dirt into the grave and tried to block out the sound of the zombie's infantile bellowing and moaning. The more the grave filled out, the less she could hear the infected. When it was completely submerged beneath the soil and its voice muffled almost entirely, Hannah said one final word of prayer, before leaving.

Back to through the trees, back across the winding dirt road, and then back to the highway. She was far behind schedule, but Hannah didn't think about it. She was too busy quivering at the notion that the already-deceased could raise. The next time she ran into an unburied, non-decapitated body, Hannah would burn it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's note: I spoke WAAAAY too soon about having more frequent updates, as the holidays rolled in and put me behind ALL my projects. Now I'm over here releasing unbeta'd, unfinished chapters to make up for lost time. AAAAAAHHHH! I hate Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) and, ugh, just the general laziness the holiday season instills in me. Hope you guys are having a good one, I'm sure not. **

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Voices, panicked and loud, undistinguishable and familiar all the same, echoed throughout Allen's head. Whomever was talking stood over his head; arguing with another, as the two of them together seized his limp body by his underarms and hauled him upwards, jostling him around until he was sitting vertically against a cool, hard surface that he couldn't immediately discern.

His body hurt-that was putting it lightly—from having been used as a punching for a Tank. His skull felt like it had been split open by an axe and his brain craved into with a chainsaw, and the migraine could only feel worse as blood pounded in his ears. His slow but steady heart-rate assured him that he was still alive—though, barely conscious.

The dim, but focused light of the setting sun burned the side of his face, making his skin feel hot and itchy. He shifted uncomfortably, and ended up falling down in what he now knew was the flatbed of a truck, as the vehicle made a sharp turn.

His head rung like a bell, as it impacted and bounced off the tarpaulin. The sheeting barely provided any cushioning from the hard flatbed, Allen quavered, as nausea and pain made him too weak to speak. To notify his fellow survivors that he was conscious, though very much still incapacitated. After his vision stopped swimming; Allen wondered vaguely why the tarp had been laid out in the first place—to keep him from getting blood on the supplies surrounding him, perhaps…

Lying painfully contorted in an imitation of a human pretzel, Allen tried to breathe against the wind tunnel swirling around his face and drawing precious air from his lungs. His cheek scrapped against the rough tarp with every bounce of the vehicle, and his shifted across the flatbed, Allen's senses were assaulted with the smells of the city.

Nauseated for a whole other reason, Allen rolled and tumbled all alone in the flatbed in the back of the pickup. As his head knocked against the rearview window thrice too many times, Allen became resentful of the fact that the two piled in the cab didn't once check up on him. He could die back here, and they wouldn't know, 'cause they were too busy dicking around.

His thoughts swam, as he could've sworn they had just been talking over his head not a moment ago. Allen then tried to muster the energy to at least sit back up, his fingernails scratched against the thin sheets of warped wood stacked beside him, and as soon as the sound met his ears, he paused. Allen almost didn't feel the pain of splinters lodging themselves in his skin, but the coarse surface under his palm was enough to make him hesitate. While it didn't hurt now, if he were to injure himself now, later he was in for pain like hellfire.

Flexing his fingers, as already discomfort was shifting to pain; Allen tried to think through the haze in his head. He tried, in vain, to figure out where he was – yeah, he knew he was in the flatbed of a pickup, but WHO'S pickup and where?

Allen was too crippled to sit up, so he couldn't see much more than the evening sky overhead and tall, green trees skimming passed in a blur of color. There weren't any bridges or road-signs tall enough for him to see, so Allen could easily discern, in his right mind, that they were not on a main road. But that left him with just as little information as he had had before.

Allen could only just feel his legs, the pins and needles sensation in them long since replaced by numbness – barely felt like he was in his own body, actually. He knew he had a concussion, that's one thing for sure. How he got it... from one of the infected, no doubt. The pounding ache in the back of his head, though, he was inclined to believe that no infected would've let him get away alive, if they'd had access to that precious, unguarded patch of skin. It somehow hurt more at the notion that another survivor had hit him. Whoever it was, they were on his shit-list.

Trying to wrap his mind fully around his current surroundings, Allen wondered what was happening at that very moment—who was Grayson talking to and what about? Had he been held up? Suddenly – it came back to him, now, the owner of this truck was a man, from the glimpse he got of him, before he'd been cold-clocked, was that of that he was clean-shaven and roughhewn. The stranger and Grayson, they'd been arguing about taking him to get some help, that they were headed ... to a safe house a little ways out in the boonies.

Apparently, the other guy had come from there looking for supplies for those who'd barricaded themselves within, and had stumbled upon them by chance – now, out of the kindness of his heart, or a secret agenda yet to be voiced, would take Allen and Grayson there, so the former could be treated for his injuries.

Allen's head lit up with pain, his processing of thoughts too much at once – like plugging a shitload of plugs all at once in a faulty power outlet —it made him short out. Except, since he wasn't a computer, he didn't shut off at the first signs of danger – he suffered, as more pain was heaped on top of the already engorged pressure in his skull.

He closed his eyes tight, trying to ignore it. A part of him knew that it was not wise in the slightest to sleep with a concussion, but the pain was making it hard not to try and do so. As the feeling of compression in Allen's skull eased up just a bit, he almost drifted off again, when the truck veered to the side and he went sliding across the flatbed for another time.

Exasperation made the pain in his body and head intensify; Allen grunted, as his shoulder collided hard with the window. "Fuck!" He hollered, his voice finally finding him.

Suddenly, the truck skidded to an abrupt halt. He thumped against the window again, momentum hell-bent on flinging him to and fro like a ragdoll. Allen swore, oblivious to the driver's side door – followed by the one passenger's side— being thrown open, as the other survivors jumped out the vehicle. For a moment, Allen overheard Grayson and the other argue, before the former begrudgingly climbed back into the vehicle and slammed the door fussily.

Afterwards, the driver appeared at the side of the flatbed. "Oy, man, you're gonna break my fucking window, if you ain't careful!" He complained; Irish-accent almost too thick to understand, his eyes burning with aggravation, as they peeked out over his dark tinted sunglasses.

Allen cursed at him, nausea rendering his manners completely nonexistent. "Learn to fucking drive." He spat back. With the wind no longer rushing about him, the humidity set upon him, making Allen sweat like a dog. Perspiration and blood made his clothes reeked and cling to his skin like an uncomfortable sheathe. That, along with the noise of nattering birds and insects buzzing in his ears, embedded a deep itch of irritation under his battered skin.

"Oh, like I've never heard that bloody line before." The other man groused, rolling his eyes.

Allen ignored him in favor of roasting in his sweat-drenched clothing. His concussion making him more disorientated than he'd ever been in his life. Allen felt like he was going to vomit, again. Propping himself up on shaky elbows, he tried to keep the world from spinning underneath him. "Where the hell are we?" He asked dazedly, caught between being pissed and confused.

The Irishman pushed his sunglasses up the bridge up his nose, until his tinted spectacles were rested again the sparse hairs on his hairline, regarding Allen fully with his dark brown eyes, before he dug his palm into his brow bone tiredly. After rubbing fatigue form his eyes, he situated his sunglasses back in their original spot on the tip of his nose, and finally gave Allen the answer to his question. "We're just a few miles from Riverview. The safe house is there and so's a doctor—she's gonna get you patched up, so you and your friend can be on your way."

Allen's head swam with a myriad of questions, followed by another jolt of pain that threatened to leave a crack in his skull. Clutching his head, he groaned. The time for questioning would have to wait until the fabled Greek god Hephaestus stopped trying to crack his head open with his mighty axe in search of his Athena-sized headache. Drawing his legs to his chest, he buried his face into his knees and mumbled into the coarse fabric of his jeans. "What're we stopping for, then?"

"—to drag your sorry-ass up to the front, so you don't end up killin' yourself back here." The Irishman answered coolly, hocking a loogie onto the road underneath him, before reaching two capable hands out and motioning for Allen to come over. "You obviously ain't gonna teleport, c'mon, lemme give yah a hand 'fore I change me mind." Allen looked at him skeptically from over the top of his knees, before sighing bitterly after a long moment and crawling towards the edge of the bed.

The Irishman shook his head, as he grappled Allen by the shoulders and roughly yanked the man onto the road. Allen hollered, practically spilling onto the street like he was in a Charlie Chaplin skit. "What the hell!?" He hollered.

"Didn't want'cha getting any ideas. 'm an accepting bloke, but I can't have yah thinking 'm interested in yah." He joked, before _helping—_more like manhandling—Allen to the passenger's door. As he pulled it open, the Irishman pushed Allen towards the opened door and let Grayson help him inside the cab. As he turned to go around the front and return to the driver's seat, he smiled at the two of them. "The name's Shawshank, by the way." He said, before slamming the door almost on Allen's feet.


End file.
